


For the Sake of Old Times, Auld Lang Syne

by bamfbugboy



Series: Renegades [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Government Conspiracy, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Year's Eve, Reaper isn't with Talon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9150976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bamfbugboy/pseuds/bamfbugboy
Summary: December 31st, 2076. A lone soldier wanders into Watchpoint: Anchorage seeking answers.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SperoDeoVolente](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SperoDeoVolente/gifts).



> I apologize, DarthUmbreon, for this piece being late. Forgive me! I was struggling a bit with inspiration. I hope you nonetheless enjoy this piece. Happy New Year!

_December 31, 2076_

After hiking through dense forests covered in snow, Soldier: 76 finally arrives at Watchpoint: Anchorage, thirty miles east of the city. 

Before heading inside, he surveys the perimeter of the dilapidated building that has seen better days. Reports of Talon activity in Russia and Alaska having kept him on edge. He’s a man on a mission, but he’s not about to grow sloppy in pursuit of his goals on account of an oncoming blizzard.

The decaying structure reflects what happened to Overwatch in its final years. Watchpoints such as this and others around the world were neglected until their subsequent abandonment with the PETRAS Act. 

His heavy boots crunch in the snow, and in the distance, he hears a lone wolf's howl. It's only him and nature for miles. At sub-zero temperatures, only the insane would make this kind of trek--and for what? Soldier: 76 isn’t sure yet if his journey will pay off in the end. At the very least, the old watchpoint will provide shelter from the worsening storm outside. He has no choice but to stay here, information or not. Answers, truth, it’ll all be meaningless if he’s frozen solid. 

Soldier: 76 enters the main building that once held this watchpoint’s data servers. The large, metal structure creaks and groans unpleasantly as he wanders the halls to his destination. Despite being inside, away from the wind and snow flurries, the cold still penetrates his jacket and the kevlar underneath. He rubs his gloved hands together, creating what friction he can, and he takes a brisk pace to the room holding the mainframe. 

Soldier: 76 doesn’t know what he’ll find here, but he’s come to expect nothing. He’s learned to lower his expectations, lest his heart continue to break over and over. He kicks down the door to the mainframe after the electronic lock fails to come to life. His worst fear is he won’t be able to turn the damn computer on, that the generators are as dead as the ones at Watchpoint: Vladivostok, and he’ll have to start all over again. He doesn’t know if he can handle another ten steps backwards. 

All he wants is a lead, a sign, something to tell him that this struggle, this endless journey, has a point of climax. He needs a light at the end of this God forsaken tunnel. He’s been hunting for information for the past five years, and he’s gotten so close in the past. He’s gained pieces of the story about what led to Overwatch’s demise, but he doesn’t have the full story. He still has unanswered questions. He wants to learn the truths behind who or what destroyed Overwatch from the inside out. What caused Overwatch to fail? Was it simply corruption or did the illness plaguing the organization go deeper? What forces were at play? Who kept Strike Commander Morrison in the dark? Who set off explosives at Zurich HQ that killed his ideals, his hopes and dreams, and most importantly, his best friend, his partner in arms… his _husband_. 

After blowing the dust off of the server’s power source, Soldier: 76 flips the switch and prays the generator will come to life. All he needs is five minutes of power. Five minutes, and he’ll be able to boot up the systems and scour the hard drive for files once deemed so classified they even went above his pay grade. He knows the United Nations and the subcontractors working alongside Overwatch used encryption to protect their data. He knows they spread this data across the watchpoints in case one place became compromised. Gabriel’s idea. Smart in theory and in practice. It’s taken him this long to travel everywhere he’s needed to go. Then came the software failsafes, but Soldier: 76 has managed to figure out a way to avoid tripping those alarms. He can thank that elusive hacker by the name of Sombra for that. He couldn’t risk losing everything. 

Soldier: 76 must have a guardian angel looking out for him. The generator turns on. Power surges through the old, abandoned servers. The cold room fills with the sound of whirring machines barely holding it together. Five minutes. That’s all I need. 

The password hasn’t changed from the last time he accessed the terminal years ago, thank God. The desktop comes to life, and he inserts the data disk into the harddrive’s archaic tower. He searches the files stored here, mindful of the failsafes, and he decrypts his way through the waters, parting the tides. He finds old meaningless UN documents, he finds personal files on members of the original Overwatch team, but nothing referring to the paper trail he discovered months ago at Watchpoint Kyoto. 

The servers start to wail in discomfort. Suddenly the once cold room feels overheated. Soldier: 76 ignores the sweat building on his neck and sliding down his spine. He stares at the screen, desperately searching for answers. Who gave the order for the Overwatch team to protect hostages that turned out to be militant anti-Omnic insurgents in Moscow? Who sanctioned the order that caused Blackwatch agents to be left behind on their mission to Dubai? All these question race through his head, racing against the clock. 

Soldier: 76 finds a file with a name that piques his interest. Payments to subsidiary corporations. He’s seen documents like this before, but access to this file requires rare clearance above his old paygrade. Suspicious. He uses the data disk of coding hacks he inserted into the tower to trick the clearance. The file opens and for the first time in months, Soldier: 76 feels like he’s on the brink of finding truth--

The servers groan, their fans working at max capacity, overclocked, and then suddenly the entire system goes black. Out of power. Overheated. Not even five minutes. The Overwatch failsafe protocols no doubt have been activated. In case of power failure, all documents and files will automatically be uploaded to the servers at Zurich HQ. 

Too bad there isn’t a Zurich HQ anymore. 

He’s come all this way, and for what? Nothing. 

He stands up abruptly from the chair that screeches backwards against the linoleum floor. He can’t contain the frustration and disappoint that boils in his blood. He drives his fist into the nearest wall over and over, knowing well enough his knuckles will heal in minutes. He slumps to the ground, broken, and beneath the visor, he sobs. 

If Gabriel Reyes were here, if he were in these shoes, Soldier: 76 knows he’d get the job done. Gabe would find the answers. He’d make it through this far better than this old soldier ever could. 

Soldier: 76 only allows himself a moment of weakness. He pulls his wits back together and forces his aching body to stop feeling sorry for itself. Gabriel’s old words of advice from the dark days of the Omnic Crisis ring in his ears like a mantra-- _You’re a soldier, act like one, rub some dirt in it and keep on fighting. Never give up._

Pity party’s over. He has work to do. He saw enough of the file, and with a near photographic memory, he hopes to recreate what he saw. _A shred of hope is still hope._ Maybe this trip isn’t for naught after all. He grabs his gear, leaves the server room, and wanders the halls of Watchpoint: Anchorage until he reaches the old common room. 

Home sweet home. Or, at the very least, one of many homes he’s had over his long career as a soldier. Wherever he was felt like home. 

The room still looks like he remembers, if only more dusty, more dirty, more ravaged by time. That’s fine by him. Soldier: 76 can relate. Time and mileage hasn’t made him look any better either. 

There’s still a small kitchen, a fireplace, a lumpy old couch where he and his fellow soldiers once used to relax together. He finds expired rations he’ll still eat and old, half-rotted books in a large bookcase he’ll burn for a fire. All apologies to Reinhardt Wilhelm, who’d no doubt throttle him for even considering the idea of burning books, even for warmth. It’s not ideal, but he’ll make due. 

After starting a small fire, Soldier: 76 falls onto the dusty, moth-eaten chair resting before the hearth. He lets out a deep, filtered sigh. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his datapad to start to recreate the key points of the financial document he found on the server. Names he recognizes amidst names he doesn’t, but will follow up on at a later date once he returns to civilization. He remembers dollar figures in the trillions being funneled to an organization he’s never heard of. 

Deep down he knows Gabe was always right. Overwatch was becoming corrupted by forces outside of his awareness. People he thought he could trust. Gabriel knew better, and while he believed him, it all came crashing down upon them--literally--before they could do anything about it. 

Once he finishes transcribing all he can remember, Soldier: 76 stows away the datapad for safe keeping. He looks up and sees Gabriel Reyes standing before him. One blink and the image is gone. He swallows thickly. It’s not the first time he’s seen ghostly visions, but the sight always takes his breath away. Even if it’s a mirage, it’s still good to see his face. But it’s also a sign he’s running on fumes. Time to let the conspiracy and superstition go until morning comes. 

Soldier: 76 adds more fuel to the fire with a wry grin. _Sorry Reinhardt._ He hopes the big guy would understand and forgive him. 

The common area holds so many memories. So many stolen glances filled with longing. Moments of mirth, when he and the rest of the strike team could put up their feet, take off their gear, and relax. 

_Lot of memories of this place. Too many to count._

Soldier: 76 takes off his visor and rests it on the table near his propped boot-clad feet. He leans back in the couch and tries to ignore the dull ache in his heart. His gaze fixates upon the ceiling. If he dares to shut his eyes, he'll see those memories play before him like old vids. He doesn't want to remember, but he doesn't want to forget. Stuck in a perpetual cycle of pushing away the past but desperately clinging to it. Would it ever get easier?

With the visor off, Jack's reminded that he's still a person of flesh and bone. He rarely takes it off, he sometimes forgets there's a man underneath. A living man. He runs a hand over his face. Stubble pricks his fingers, rough and unmanaged. He rarely ever shaves. He traces the two scars crossing his face and tries not to imagine that the fingers that touch him actually belong to his beloved. The knot in his shoulders throbs. He's pretty damn sure he has an unpopped blister on his foot. The nonexistent lumbar of the couch makes his back feel stiff as a plank of wood. 

Home sweet home, alright. 

Fuck old age. If Soldier: 76 had his way, he'd never sleep. He'd never stop. Not until he finds what he searches for. Sleep's for the dead. He can't join Gabriel until he has answers. He wants to meet his husband on the other side with answers. 

The fire crackles in the hearth and gives off light, bathing the room in hues of red and orange. Warmth slowly spreads through the bitterly cold facility. He's thankful the common area wasn’t too decimated by abandonment. 

His stomach growls. He eats long expired rations because fuck it, why the hell not. They never tasted right to begin with, and he can’t get sick from them anyways. If it weren’t sub-zero outside, he might’ve gone hunting for something substantial. 

The wind whistles through the halls of the watchpoint. He digs into his knapsack and pulls out his only blanket. Somewhere, there must be an open door or window bringing in the winter storm into his respite. 

Silence never sit well with Jack Morrison, but to Soldier: 76, he's glad to be alone in a place like this. Hallowed ground. Sacred space. The dead keep him company, but thankfully they don't talk. Solitude suits who he has become. 

Soldier pulls the blanket tighter to his chest when he starts to shiver. He closes his eyes, and it's a mistake he immediately regrets. Brown eyes, dark hair, facial hair, a smirk, and a strong jawline. 

_Gabriel._

Soldier: 76 doesn't open his eyes. He can't. The stoic soldier inside of him screams to let go, to wake up, to stay alert. His instincts tell him to stop before he hurts himself. But his heart, his still beating heart tells him to give in. Remember. 

Jack Morrison stirs from his rest. Jack could never resist Gabriel Reyes. Not those eyes, not that smirk, not that charm. He wishes he could restrain himself, he’d rather convince himself that Jack Morrison is buried beside the man he loves at Arlington National Cemetery, but sometimes self-deception doesn’t work. He misses his husband with every fiber of his being, and no amount of cognitive dissonance can take away the fact that Jack Morrison didn’t really die, he transformed into a widower. A man on a mission. He’s literally walked thousands of miles to find answers about what happened in Zurich. He’s kept up this lonely fight because he doesn’t want despair and grief to eat him alive. 

The datapad in his pocket vibrates and starts to chirp, stirring him from his thoughts. Jack pulls out the device and sees that another year has passed before his very eyes. 2077. He scoffs. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Another year over. At the very least, good riddance to 2076. 

Jack sets down the datapad beside him and closes his eyes. He remembers a special New Years celebration over twenty years ago when they saved humanity from destruction by the Omnics. Gabriel Reyes had been at his side, a hero, a figurehead. They stood together in Los Angeles, Pershing Square, and when one year ended and the next began, they kissed underneath the fireworks. In the middle of that party, Gabriel grabbed Jack by the hand, and then they ran off, hand in hand. They bought expensive liquor store wine, got a hotel room, and had a long night together for the first time as free men ready to move forward. That night, they started a new chapter in their lives. 

He’s so engrossed in his own memories that Jack doesn’t notice the strange smell of sulfur in the air, the sudden decrease in temperature, and the black, sinewy tendrils spilling over the couch like vines. 

“Happy New Year, Jack.” 

Jack spins around off of the couch, reaches for his rifle, and scans the area behind him only to find himself alone. He blinks at the shadows, panting, and tries to still his pounding heart. He holds his rifle tightly, his finger trembling on the trigger. 

He’s an old man dealing with fifty shades of depression and grief, a man who can’t seem to move on from his past well enough. He’s borderline manic, hearing voices, jumping at shadows. 

But Goddamn if that voice didn’t sound like… 

A gloved hand covers his own in the trigger. Jack almost jumps out of his skin and nearly pulls the trigger. 

“Put the gun down.” 

Fight or flight kicks in. He doesn’t have enough time to run. He twists around, wrenching himself free from the intruder’s grasp. He looks towards the hearth and sees a black, gaseous presence hovering before him. His brows furrow in confusion and panic. The smell of sulfur burns in his nostrils.

“You’re one paranoid son of a bitch. How long since you last slept?”

Jack’s lips part. That ball of gas just… 

Before he can speak, the amorphous haze starts to take shape until a man cloaked in all black kevlar stands before him holding his hands up. He wears a mask of bone that reminds Jack of a bird. 

“Pull yourself together, Jack, and look at me.” 

“Why don’t you tell me who the Hell you are?” A vein in his head throbs. “How do you know my name?” 

“Put the gun down and I’ll explain. I’m not asking you to do that for my safety, but yours.” 

“What is that supposed to--” 

The man sublimates, turns from solid to gas, and in an instance moves forward until they’re inches apart. 

“It’s me. Gabriel.” 

Jack’s eyes widen. Suddenly this quiet evening noted by failure has taken a turn for the worst. He must be dreaming, hallucinating, or maybe he’s fucking tripping on expired rations. 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are but Gabriel’s dead.” 

“I thought Jack Morrison was dead too, but here he stands in the flesh,” the masked man says, his voice deep and like gravel. “He looks a lot sexier than I remember, so I guess old age has benefitted one of us.” 

Jack swallows thickly. 

“Please, Jack. Lower the gun. I don’t want to have to disarm you. You know I was better in melee spars than you ever were.” 

“Take off your mask.”

“I don’t know if you want me to do that, Jack. I don’t look as great as you do. Angela did a number on me.”

“What?” Jack blinks. “What are you talking about--” 

“Put down the gun and I’ll explain, Jesus. I’m not going to have this conversation with a gun in my face.” 

Jack weighs the words carefully. His intuition tells him to run. To forget the visor, his pack, Hell even his jacket. Soldier: 76 would run and never look back to spare himself this heartbreak. Another part of himself wants to stay, to listen, to listen to this hallucination, to keep dreaming, to… to believe that maybe in this fucked up world, maybe… maybe Gabriel is alive after all. 

“If I lower this gun you have to tell me who you are, why you’re here, what this all has to do with Angela, and you have to take off that mask.”

The man before him, the ghost of times past, weighs the bargain. Thick black smoke billows around him like a miasma. Then, after moments of silence, he nods, slowly. 

“Alright, Jack. I’ll do it. But don’t come crying to me when you realize I’ve become some kind of fucked up monstrosity.” 

Against his better judgment, Jack lowers the gun. 

“I want to see you,” he pleads. “If you… if you really are…” he can’t even say the name. His voice wavers too much. He’s betting on a miracle. 

“I’m a man of my word. Over twenty years ago to this day, I told you I’d always look out for you. I’d always come find you. No matter what. I’m honoring my promise after all this time.” 

The man pulls off his hood and reaches behind him to take off the mask, which drops to the floor with a clatter. 

Time stops for Jack Morrison. Standing before him, plain as day, is none other than his deceased husband Gabriel Reyes. To Jack Morrison, he looks no different, not really. Beautiful brown skin, curly hair now tinged with grey at the sides, scars crossing his face, a scruffy beard. His once hazel eyes are now red, and there’s a hole in his cheek where Jack can see his gums, but it’s Gabriel. It’s… it’s his Gabriel. 

“Gabe… God, Gabriel, it… is it really…?” 

“It’s me, Jack. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. For a long time, I thought you were dead. I’ve actually been doing something similar all this time. Two minds think alike, I guess. I’ve been searching for answers, I’ve needed closure about Overwatch, about your death, but I discovered you were alive, that this man who’s been causing trouble all over the world--Soldier: 76--when I discovered that was you… I started tailing you. I followed you all the way through that snowstorm...” 

Jack cuts him off with a teary kiss. He wraps around his husband and vows to never let go. After searching for years, after walking for miles alone, carrying memories, he has answers.


End file.
